


The Adventure of the Six Dianas

by likecrackingwater (1thetenfootlongscarf2)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adaption of A. Conan Doyle's Work, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-06-08
Updated: 2013-06-08
Packaged: 2017-12-14 08:43:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/834932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/1thetenfootlongscarf2/pseuds/likecrackingwater
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on “The Adventure of the Six Neapolitans” by Sir Arthur Conon Doyle</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Six Dianas

John Watson gingerly lifted the lid of the tea tin. He was pointedly ignoring the Tupperware sitting not two centimetres from his left hand. Whatever was in the container had started to grow a soft fuzzy covering of mould. John had no idea if Sherlock was up yet; though the man insisted he had a habit of going to bed at ten o’clock, John had yet to see it. Perhaps Sherlock did that when a case was not imminent, or being investigated, or just passed. Unfortunately, a case was always imminent, or being investigated, or just passed. Regardless of the psychosomatic limp, John found that running on pavement at one thirty in the morning was not great for his knees.

 

After successfully making tea and not looking at the clock (why did five feel so early in the morning? Oh, right. Because he had spent the whole night chasing Sherlock around the West End) he walked back into the sitting room.

The man himself was lying sprawled on the sofa. Mrs. Hudson hadn’t managed to dig out the bullets in the wall yet. John tried not to catch the skull’s eye as he sat down a watched Sherlock read the paper. He craned his neck to look at the cover, which was facing the wall.

“Why on earth are you reading ‘The Sun’?”

“‘The Sun’ is a weekly paper.”

“It’s a load of rubbish. I can deduce that.” It had a heavily doctored picture of a local MP on the front. “Where did you get it?”

“Mrs. Hudson left it lying around.”

“You mean you stole it from her.”

Sherlock ignored him and turned the page.

“It’s bad enough you take her sugar bowl and make her clean up…”

Sherlock waived his hand. “I picked up a bit.”

“Because she went off to Florida,” John scrubbed his face, “for two months. And you can’t just break into people’s flats when you feel like it. It’s rude.”

Sherlock turned another page.

“You could get arrested.” John continued. He added in desperation. “I wouldn’t bail you out.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to. Mycroft takes care of it.”

John was tired of the conversation. His tea had gone cold. He sipped it anyway.

“Anything interesting?”

The tabloid almost it him in the face. Sherlock ambled into the kitchen.

“Page seven. The side bar.”

John flipped to it and found the column in question. He could hear Sherlock rummaging around.

“Have you seen my pancreas?” It was more of a demand than a question.

John looked up. It was too early. “Pardon?”

“My pancreas. Have you seen it. I left it by the sink.”

John picked up the paper again. “When did you leave it by the sink?”

“After that tussle with C.”

See? See who… oh right. MI6. John shook his head. “That was in February.”

“So.” There was an expensive sounding crash.

“It’s May now.”

John had a feeling the pancreas in question had ended up next to the tea tin. He’d let Sherlock suffer.

The column announced:

 

**Diana Crushed Again!!**

Four nights ago, a burglar broke into the shop of a  **Mr. Morse Hamilton** , in  **Lambeth**.  **Mr. Hamilton** ’s assonant, one  **Joy Grant** , left the shop (on  **Kennington**   **Road** ) for an instant, when she heard a crash. Running back, she found a plaster bust of the late  **Diana, Princess of Wales** (which had sat among other works of art) crushed into fragments.  **Ms. Grant**  rushed out onto the road. Although passers-by did see a man running out of the shop,  **Ms. Grant**  could not see anyone or have means of identifying the culprit.

 

 

 It seemed to be one of those random acts of damage… **or was it?**

Last night a more serious case arose. On  **Kennington Road** \- only a few yards from  **Mr. Hamilton** ’s shop, lives well known plastic surgeon  **Dr. Jeanne Barnicot**.  **Dr. Barnicot**  is known to be a  **Diana**  enthusiast, and her home on is full of books, pictures, and relics of the late **Princess**. Some time ago she purchased  **two**  busts of  **Diana** ; one in the hall of the house on **Kennington Road**  and another in her office in  **Lower Brixton**. When  **Dr. Barnicot**  came down this morning she was astonished to discover that her bust had been  **removed**   **from**   **the**   **house** and broken against her garden wall. Then she went to her office, where she was astonished to discover that the bust in her office had been  **reduced**   **to**   **dust**.

John shut the rag. Sherlock was still puttering about the kitchen. He’d probably given up on the tea and was looking for something stronger. The cigarettes with Molly at Bart’s, and Lestrade had convinced every shop within a five mile radius not to sell Sherlock any.

Something else clattered noisily to the floor. With all the banging, they would have to get new tiles. Again. John had never seen a basic eat through linoleum so quickly.

Sherlock’s phone chirped on the table. John ignored it.

“Sherlock. Phone.”

Sherlock dashed towards the mobile.

131 Pitt Street, Kensington

Lestradet Street, Kensing

Sherlock grinned.

“Case?” John asked.

“Case.”

Ten minutes later they were sitting in a cab.

Sherlock had his phone out. The keys clicked loudly. “We’ll reach Pitt Street in twenty-seven minutes. What did you think of the article?”

He still hadn’t looked up from his phone.

John shrugged. “I have no idea. Maybe someone’s got a Diana obsession?”

Sherlock glanced up over the edge of his phone. “That’s all?”

“I’m a doctor, Sherlock. Not a shrink.”

“You don’t like psychology.” Sherlock was looking at his phone again. The keys clattered. “Why.”

“It’s not that I dislike...look, Sherlock, I like psychologists. I’ve met some very nice ones.”

John stared out the window. It was raining. He hoped the case was indoors. Or at least the body. Sherlock would take any excuse to romp in the mud.

“Why now.”

John looked at Sherlock. He hadn’t been paying attention. “Sorry?”

“Why text me now.” Sherlock held up the phone and looked at it critically.

“I have no idea.”

“Correct.” Sherlock tucked the phone away. “It is a capital mistake to theorise without data.”

As the cab rolled up, John saw the railings of the house were lined by a curious crowd. Sherlock whistled. They clambered out.

“Well! It’s attempted murder at least. Nothing less would hold the attention on that many sheep. Look at that man,” Sherlock pointed to a figure at the edge of the throng, “rounded shoulders and outstretched neck. Deed of violence. Fantastic.”

He shoved his way through. Sergeant Donavan was standing on the stoop. She glared at the crowd, then jerked her thumb at the door. “He’s in the sitting room.”

Lestrade was trying to comfort a shaking man. Sherlock swept around the room like an overlarge bat. John watched from a respectful distance and tried to give the man a comforting smile. Introductions were made, and then Lestrade opened his note book.

“Why don’t you start again?” The DI tried to sound encouraging, but he was a comforting as Sherlock on a bad day.

The man nodded jerkily.

“I’m a writer, for one of the papers. All my life I’ve been collecting other people’s news, and now that a real piece has come my way an I can’t put two words together. If I’d come on this as a journalist, I’d ‘ave columns done in time for evening update. Now, I’m givin’ away a valuable copy by telling by story over and over...”

Lestrade cut in. “Explain the murder Mr. Johnson.”

Johnson looked at Sherlock, who was leaning against the wall with his eyes closed. The detective cracked open an eye and gave the man a disdainful once over, then shut it again. John sighed.

Johnson blinked. “Alright. It seems to be about those Diana busts. I sat it in one of the rags... I bought it (the bust) cheep four months ago from the Libey Brothers, two doors from High Street Station. I write a lot at night, sometimes up ‘til morning. I did that last night too. I write in the den, at the back of the house, and at three o’clock I thought I heard a noise. So I comes down and sees nothing. I wait, but there’s no more sounds. I figure it musta come from outside, so I quiet like down the stairs, and there’s this horrible scream. I swear Mr. Holmes, I’ll hear that noise as long as I live. I rushed into this room...there’s where the bust was,” he pointed to a side table, “but I don’t know if it was here last night. I grabbed a cricket bat and went outside. I stepped outside...and there was a man just lying there. I turned on the light... his feet was all curled to his chest and a great gash in his throat. Blood everywhere. I phoned the police. That’s all I remember, till the coppers come.”

Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Who was the man?”

Lestrade shrugged. “Nothing to show for him. His body’s in the mortuary. Molly can give you a better look-see but,” the DI shrugged and looked at his notes, “tall, sunburnt, not older than thirty. Running prints now, but that’ll take a day at least. Shabby dressed.”

Lestrade handed John a horn-handle knife in an evidence baggie. It was clean.

“Found it in a bin a block over. It’s been wiped, but the CSl’s test it, see what comes up.”

He turned to Sherlock. “Anderson pulled this off him,” Sherlock took the white square, “along with an apple and some string.”

John looked at the square. It was one of those exposure pictures. In the film was a gaunt looking man with thick eyebrows and a severe under bite.

Outside, Sherlock turned to Lestrade. “Where was the bust?”

“Campden House Road. I’m going to up there now.”

“We’ll follow.”

John looked back at Johnson’s house. The man was sitting at a table, tapping away at the computer.

The spot where the fragment of the bust had been found was only a few hundred yards away. John looked around, puzzled. Sherlock picked up several of the fragments and examined them carefully. From his expression, John knew he was onto something.

Lestrade was less impressed. “Well?”

Sherlock shrugged his shoulders.

“We have a long way to go,” he said, “but we have some facts. This possession,” he held up a shard, “is worth more to the criminal than human life. That is one point. The other is why he did not break it inside the house, or just outside of it, if to break the bust was his sole object?”

“He was surprised by Johnson,” John suggested. After all, the killer could have been startled by him coming out of the house.

“It’s likely…” Sherlock said. John felt slightly pleased. “But completely wrong.”

Lestrade was the one grinning now. The DI glanced up the street.

“This is an empty house. He knew he wouldn’t be disturbed.”

“Yes, but there is an empty house further up the street which he must have passed before he came to this one. Why did he not break it there, since it is obvious that every yard that he carried it increased his risk of being seen?”

“I give up,” snapped Lestrade. “Just tell me Sherlock.”

Sherlock point up at the street lamp.

“He could see what he was doing here, but not there.”

“Great, he needed the light.”

“There must have been a reason for it.” John insisted. “This was planned, not some mental thing.” He said the last two words with distain.

"Fine.” Lestrade pulled out his notebook. “What do we do with this fact?”      

 “Nothing.” Sherlock smiled his shark’s grin. “You go back to Scotland Yard and identify the dead man. There should be no difficulty with that. Somehow I doubt even Anderson… no, get Molly to take the prints. Go. I’ll call you when I need you.”

Lestrade pinched the bridge of his nose. “Don’t get into trouble.”

“Yes mother.” Sherlock flagged a cab.

John turned to Lestrade.

“Don’t bother apologizing.” The DI said. “This is him being nice.”

Sherlock came back. “I almost forgot.” The detective pulled out his phone and sent a message, then looked at the two men. “If you’re going back to Johnson (never mind, you are) tell him Mr. Holmes has made up his mind, and is certain that a dangerous homicidal lunatic, with a Dania obsession, was at his house last night. It will be useful for his article.”

Lestrade stared.

“You don’t seriously believe that?”

Sherlock grinned.

“Don’t I? Well, maybe I don’t. But I’m sure it will interest Mr. Johnson and his subscribers. Now, we’ve got a long day ahead-and Lestrade, you’ll come to Baker Street at six. I’ll keep the photograph. Come on John.”

John followed Sherlock up High Street, where they stopped in front of the Libey Brothers, where the bust had been purchased. John looked at the figurines in the window warily. The painted kittens had dead eyes.

The clerk looked up when the bell rang. Gum popped loudly.

“Can I help you?”

John looked around the store. It smelled like plaster and mould. The small animals seemed to leer.

“No.” Sherlock dragged John back out.

The crowd buffeted around them. They walked up the street. Sherlock had his hands in his pockets.

“Not there.”

“What?”

“The owners, not there.”

“Well, what next?”

Sherlock tossed a gaudy kitten in the air. He showed the bottom to John. “We go to the source.”

An hour later, John stood shivering in front of Mr. Hamilton’s store. Sherlock had dashed off to plaster factory by the shipping yards. When John entered, a bell rang cheerily. A small whiskered man popped up from behind the counter. John started.

“Hello.”

The man grinned. “Hello.”

“I have some question about the busts you sold…”

“Oh, those busts!” Mr. Hamilton’s face transformed into an angry sneer. “I’ve wasted so much time on this. I don’t know why I bother to pay taxes or license fee if anyone can come in here and destroy a whole shelf of merchandise! Yes, I sold Dr. Barnicot her figures. Disgraceful. I suppose you’re here to do something about this? I will get reimbursed for damages, correct?”

He was still talking as John left. Sherlock texted him as John got into a cab.

At Bart’s. Come.

SH

Sherlock and Molly were standing over the dead man from Pitt Street. As John walked in Sherlock stared talking.

“Found the man in the photograph. Worked Gelder & Co., of Stepney, as a mouldsman. Went by the name of Beppo. That’s not a proper name, didn’t come up in any databases that Molly could get to. He got arrested for knifing a man, spent a year in jail. Lestrade is checking records now. I’ve got the Libey Brothers to e-mail us the sales of May and June of last year.”

“Why May and June?” Molly asked.

“Because that’s when Beppo was arrested. Keep up.” Sherlock was examining the fingernails and didn’t see Molly’s face fall. John made to give her a pet on the shoulder, but the gesture became awkward before he had even stretched out his arm. He quickly dropped it. Molly moved onto another one of her patients. Sherlock was still talking.

“…and Johnson got his article done after all.” Sherlock gestured toward a torn sheet of newsprint next to the microscope without looking up. John read the page.

 

…It pleases London to know that there can be no difference is opinion upon this case, as DI Lestrade of Scotland Yard, and the consulting detective Sherlock Holmes (made famous by the blog of Dr. John H. Watson) have each come to the conclusion that the odd, and now horrifying, incidents of the past week come from madness rather than deliberate crime. No explanation but mental aberration can cover the facts. Sgt. Donavan asks that anyone with information to please call…

 

Sherlock quirked a smile when John put down the paper.

“What do you think? The press is fantastic.”

“Better than the Clacks.” John replied.

Sherlock shot him a puzzled look, but Molly ginned into the chest cavity of an old man. At least someone got the reference.

Sherlock’s phone chirped.

“Ah. The list of sales.”

John’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He glanced down.

1 Hamilton, Morse 459 Pitt Street

1 Brown, Josiah Laburnum Vale, Chiswick

1 Sandeford, K. Lower Grove Road, Reading

3 others have been destroyed

“Okay.” John said. “What’s this?”

“The name of import.” Sherlock replied. “We have to go. Almost six”

As he left he called back to Molly. “Take the rest of the day off. You’ve earned it.”

After they reached 221B, John said to him, “She can’t take the rest of the day off, it’s six at night. She was working overtime for you.”

Sherlock shrugged as he mounted the steps. “Fine.”

Lestrade was waiting for them. John shot him an apologetic smile.

When John made to sit down Sherlock grabbed his arm.

“No time.”

Lestrade looked up. “What?”

Sherlock re-tied his scarf. “We’ve going to Chiswick.”

Lestrade drove them. Sherlock had insisted they park three houses away. John looked at him trough the bushes.

“Are we supposed to be hiding in a bunch of shrubbery?”

On the other side Lestrade chucked. “Shrubbery.”

Sherlock shot Lestrade an annoyed look before he glanced at his watch. “We have a bit of a wait.”

“How long?” Lestrade hissed.

“Four hours. And I’ll have to confiscate your phones.”

John passed his over, but slipped the battery out. He was tired of Sherlock reading the e-mails to his girlfriend(s, he could never keep them after the third date) aloud and correcting the iambic pentameter in his poems. Lestrade had done the same to his phone. John didn’t want to know what Sherlock had done to the DI.

The time did not pass quickly. There was no warning, for John. One moment the back door was shut tightly, the next a figure slipped out. It walked two steps, crouched under the porch light, and smashed something on the wood. He was so busy rooting through the mess that he did not hear Sherlock creep up on him. Sherlock jumped on the thief’s back as John and Lestrade grabbed either wrist. For a moment John flinched. The man tired to bite him. Lestrade had the thief cuffed in a moment. The man stared shouting until Lestrade growled.

“Scotland Yard. You’re under arrest.”

John tuned out the rest as a man in a bath-robe poked his head out the back door. There were bags under his eyes. John didn’t have to be a consulting detective to know that most people wore two slippers, not one.

“Got him Mr. Holmes?” the bath-robed man asked.

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, thank you Mr. Brown. No need to loiter. You daughter is still sick.”

“Yes- how did you…”

“I suggest you go take care of her. Flu is nasty this time of year.”

Mr. Brown disappeared into the house.

“It’s May, Sherlock.” John whispered.

“So?”

“Bit hard to get the flu?”

“Never mind.”

As they passed Lestrade, whose backup suddenly metalized with a wail of sirens and flashing lights, John asked, “Did you delete the flu from your memory?”

“Shut up.”

“You did, didn’t you? The great Sherlock Holmes forgot the common flu.”

“Shut up John. We’re not done yet.”

John looked at his friend in surprise. “Why not? We caught the baddie.”

“But we don’t know  _why_. And the why is everything.”

John sighed and waited as Sherlock hailed a taxi. John wanted to wonder how Sherlock possessed a magical ability to hail a taxi in under a minute, but the answer probably involved Mycroft, and John was too tired to care.

The next day, there was a visitor. Lestrade arrived with bloodshot eyes.

“This had better be good Sherlock.” He rubbed them. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep.”

John was curious too. Sherlock had not said a word since the arrest of the man last night.

Mrs. Hudson bustled in. She looked flustered.

“Oh, Sherlock. There was another man. He wanted me to give this to you.”

She passed him a large cardboard box. She asked if they wanted any tea, and when they declined, she left.

Sherlock placed the package on John’s lap.

“From my friend Mr. Sandeford.”

Lestrade looked up in surprise.

Sherlock noticed. “It’s an expression Lestrade. You know I don’t have any friends.”

John grinned and pulled apart the flaps.  Nestled amongst a mess of newspapers was the final Diana bust. He picked it up. The bust was slightly blurred on the back. In all honesty, John thought it was ugly.

“Give it here.”

Sherlock took the bust and set it on the floor. He held his favorite riding crop in one hand. John wondered if Sherlock had ever ridden a horse. He seem to reserve the crops for hitting things. John thoughts were derailed when Sherlock raised his arm. The man smashed the crop onto the crown of the busts’ head. The plaster shattered into a thousand pieces.

Sherlock carefully looked at each shard, when suddenly, with a laugh, he held up a large piece with a small dark object affixed inside.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “let me introduce you to the famous black pearl of the Borgias.”

Lestrade reached for the shard. “How the hell did you find this?”

Sherlock tossed him the bit of plaster and picked up his violin. “It was simple. A large amount of Italian jewelry was sent to the Christie auction house early last year. Suspicion fell on one of the cleaners, Lucretia Venucci, and I looked up old files and found the date of the theft was two days before the arrest of Beppo, at his place of work. The dead man, named Pietro, was the brother of Lucretia. Beppo had the pearl in his possession. He may have stolen it from Pietro, he may have been Pietro’s wingmen, he may have been the go-between Pietro and his sister. The fact is he  _had_  the pearl, and while he had it he was being pursued by the police. He went to his place of work, where he saw six plaster busts of Diana drying. He swiftly made a hole in one and dropped the pearl inside. When he was released, the busts were scattered about London. So he had to track down each bust, then break them open, because there was a chance that the peal had come affixed to the side, like it had done.”

Lestrade nodded. “Alright. That’s it then?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replied. “You hold on to it. I assume it will be sent back to Italy soon.”

John let Lestrade out. “What now?” he asked when the DI left.

Sherlock shrugged. “I have no plans. Perhaps I’ll go to bed.”

As he ambled out of the room, John looked at the clock. It was ten in the morning.


End file.
